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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296220">Deadline</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbringer34/pseuds/Lightbringer34'>Lightbringer34</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warhammer 40.000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Other, i just really like the image of an exhausted Emperor in scrubs, like he tends to the human race, likely a bit OOC, tending to a dying patient</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:20:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbringer34/pseuds/Lightbringer34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor breaks the news to Angron.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Angron &amp; The Emperor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deadline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wasn't sure if this scene was in the Horus Heresy books or not, it's been too long and I'm not going to look through 50-odd books for it.</p><p>I know the Emperor's supposed to be this Perfect Being and all that doesn't need sleep, but one of my favorite images is of a heart surgeon who'd just finished a ten-twelve hour operation on a patient, just sitting in a chair, exhausted, and felt like it would be appropriate after learning such news. Again, this also requires an Emperor who has real human emotions, so, natch.</p><p>So here's Angron's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Primarch Angron of the World Eaters woke up to a splitting pain in his skull. This was nothing new, He'd woken up that way for twenty-five years as the Butcher's Nails punished him for engaging in rest, a concept so anathema to the violence-driven existence they were designed to create. He was flooded with adrenaline, endorphins, and other, more esoteric chemicals that made up a Primarch's physiology, causing his hands to clench against the edges of the stainless steel table.</p><p>He knew where he was, for it was where he'd fallen asleep. The primary Apothecarion of the <em>Bucephalus, </em>the Emperor's personal flagship. As a facility for treating a Primarch, the Bucephalus's medical centre was the best place in the galaxy for the task. The Emperor's original gene-forges were long gone, destroyed or dispersed across the Throneworld to help make new Astartes for the galaxy-spanning Great Crusade. And while the Primarchs were each wholly unique beings, there were enough commonalities with the Custodies who normally were treated here that it had served his purpose.</p><p>Angron forced his fingers to relax and cautiously probed his skull. Much to his disappointment, the Nails were still attached, cabling and neuro-connectors feeding from his brain into his spinal column to spread their message of violence. He'd acquired a new scar, a thin line across his forehead where a surgical laser had removed the top of his head, at the Emperor's personal instruction. An Emperor, his Father, who was not here.</p><p>This, at least, was the first sign something was wrong to Angron. His father had saved him and his Eaters of Cities from certain destruction by the high-riders, and had tested him under the guise of a common soldier. If he had been more callous, more cruel, or more glorifying of the bloodshed that was to come, Angron had no doubt the Emperor would have left him to die alongside his brothers and sisters. As it happened, he had a great many more brothers now, as well as genetic sons, which had taken some getting used to.</p><p>None of them were here either.</p><p>Angron rose from the slab, which was less of a bed and more of an operating table, and searched the room. He found the same long pair of trousers and thick fur jacket he had worn before folded neatly on one of the chairs, but no sign of the operations that had taken place. The blood had been wiped away and none of the instruments were visible. Now slightly concerned, Angron strolled out of the double doors opposite him to see an empty, sterile hallway.</p><p>Well, not quite empty.</p><p>A man sat, head bowed in the chair closest to the door, his elbows resting on his thighs in a posture that spoke of deep exhaustion. The sea-green medical scrubs he wore were still stained with blood and Angron recognized it as his own. The Primarch moved forward as quietly as he could, attempting to discern if the surgeon was asleep or merely resting. To his surprise, the former appeared to be true, for the man emitted a soft, almost indiscernible snore as Angron edged forward. He leaned down and was surprised to recognize the Emperor's firm chin, heavy brow, and appropriately aquiline nose. But, with his hair pulled back under a surgical cap, and asleep, the man looked completely different from both the soldier Spartacus and the shining golden warrior he had been.</p><p>His skin was darker and weathered like old leather, placing him as an equatorial native of Terra, and his lips were twisted even now, into a slight frown, as if their owner was displeased at being caught in such a state. But most of all he looked tired. Tired beyond the reckoning of mortal men, even beyond his Primarch brothers at the end of a difficult campaign. The Emperor had lived for a very long time, in the harshest environments of the Age of Strife, and it showed. He looked old and while his power-armored form portrayed a man in his thirties with dark black hair, the man here was a wizened sixty-five</p><p>Angron studied his Father for several minutes in silent examination, in much the way his Father had studied him, until he was satisfied. He reached forward to wake him with one massive hand, only for his hand to halt at an invisible psychic barrier. The Emperor woke up the way all soldiers woke up, all at once and in absolute silence. </p><p>His eyes flicked open and up to meet Angron's own and he sighed deeply. "You are awake three minutes and fifty-seven seconds before the dosage was set to wear off completely. I suppose I should have expected that. I did design you that way after all."</p><p>Angron bowed his head. "You look like you needed that beauty rest, Father."</p><p>The Emperor ran his hand over his face, and while his age was apparent, his fingers did not tremble in their passage. "I suppose I do, my son. But only when our work is finally done. Only then."</p><p>To Angron, he sounded both wistful and dejected, as if he already knew such a day would always be out of reach, no matter how much he hoped for it. Angron, recognizing his father did not appear to be moving anytime soon, sat in the rows of chairs opposite him, nearly filling half the hallway. "What news?"</p><p>The Emperor was silent for a full minute as he marshaled his thoughts. "My son, you are perhaps a victim of your own success. As your Eaters of Cities proved, on normal men, or at least mildly gene-modified men, the Butcher's Nails can be removed, though the long-term neurological and psychological damage will take years to remove, if they are not permanent."</p><p>"I'm a Primarch," surmised Angron. "That's the difference that worries you."</p><p>The Emperor allowed his head to sag in a nod. "Your body is a unique biological factory, built to be self-sustaining and capable of repairing grievous trauma, perhaps even up to the replacement of lost limbs." He gave Angron a wry, thin-lipped grin. "For obvious reasons, we haven't tested that yet, though Ferrus Manus's condition offers a glimpse into the possibilities."</p><p>"We're talking about me, my operation," reminded Angron. "Not Ferrus, not Vulkan, me. What did the surgery tell you about my condition?"</p><p>The Emperor looked straight into his son's eyes as he damned him. "The Nails cannot be removed without killing you. Since the moment the probes latched on, your body has been fighting its effects, creating new brain cells, rerouting signals to shut out and reject the Nails's influence. Unfortunately, the Nails are a psycho-reactive system and forced themselves deeper into your central nervous system than in any other living being I have seen. They have wrapped around your very brain stem."</p><p>The exhausted surgeon tapped the back of his neck in demonstration. "Living on a feudal planet, you would not know this, but the brain stem represents the very core of human drives. Eating, fighting, procreation, rest. The Nails have emphasized one of these to the exclusion of all else, causing your body to enter a state of shock. The Primarchs, the Custodies, even myself, can all function on very little sleep, but as I have just demonstrated, we must rest at some point. The mind is a delicate and powerful machine, but it cannot run forever, let alone in the state of shock yours has been."</p><p>Angron frowned. "So besides you pumping me full of drugs and a psychic compulsion, I can't sleep?" </p><p>The Emperor shook his head. "Could my Librarians simply repeat the procedure?"</p><p>His father considered the question and shook his head. "They would burn themselves out trying, I think. Perhaps not the first night, or the second, but the cumulative mental strain would take its toll."</p><p>"So I'll set up a rotation, scour the stars for compatible psykers. If the shock is because I can't sleep then-"</p><p>"Angron," the Emperor's voice cut across his. "The Nails are going to kill you. I am sorry, but they are even beyond my power to remove or alter. When I tried, they burrowed deeper into your soft tissue and accelerated the decay of neurons around them. They are drilling into your brain and starving it of bioelectricity at the same time as they attack your core functions. Not even a Primarch's physiology can repair that much continuous damage."</p><p>Angron's face twisted up in pain as the Nails sensed his rage and horror. He bared his teeth and breathed through his nose alone to stem his heart rate. "If I'm dying, how long do I have?"</p><p>The Emperor shrugged, a gesture so human that its absence for thousands of years had left it stiff and awkward on his bony frame. "Fifty years. Maybe more, but with the damage done during the operation, perhaps as little as thirty. By the end they will crack your brain like an egg."</p><p><strong>"GODS DAMMIT ALL!" </strong>roared the Primarch, flinging his metal chair the length of the corridor. At the noise, two Custodians appeared in the doorway, guardian spears leveled, but the Emperor held up a hand. Angron beat his fists against the walls, the floor, and himself until his skin was shredded and broken. But he did not touch the Emperor, who sat with an expression of quiet devastation seen in hospitals the galaxy over.</p><p>"I was smack dab in the middle of Ultramar's precious Five Hundred Worlds," he snarled. "You found Gulliman two years before me, had time to debate statecraft and philosophy with him. You personally tutored Horus Lupercal and spoke with Magnus for years before you ever arrived on Prospero. If you really cared about your sons the same way I do mine, you wouldn't have stopped until every one of us was back in your command. You would have scoured the galaxy searching, not conquering. If Khârn was out there somewhere, I would sooner dive into a star than miss one moment that could have saved him. So what's your excuse, <em>my Emperor</em>?"</p><p>The acidic sarcasm was almost drowned out by the rage in his voice, but not quite. The Emperor knit his fingers together, but did not otherwise move. "If I had found you the day they were implanted, the year, perhaps, I could have done something. You are correct, it is my failure alone. But I cannot change the past, Angron. We must look to the future, if we are to look anywhere."</p><p>The World Eater's Primarch pointed down. "You're avoiding the damn question! Just like the fancy-talking high-riders, goin' round in circles, sayin' nothing that matters. What about my future, huh? My Legion's future? Do we get even those fifty years, or are you going to call Russ just like-"</p><p>"<strong><span class="u">Do not. speak. their. names</span></strong>."</p><p>Fury rose to meet fury and across the ship, mortals fled from what they knew not, or froze in place. Guards leaped at passing pedestrians, only to forget why even as they hit the ground. But Angron did not back down, even as the Emperor expanded and grew until he met the Primarch's eyes in golden armor.</p><p>"Just do it yourself," spat Angron bitterly. "Cut me down like a man, not at the order of some whinging cur."</p><p>"Is that what you want?" asked the Emperor.</p><p>Angron opened his mouth, ready to say yes, but froze.</p><p>What of Lhorke? of Mago, of Khârn? Of every one of the thousands of Space Marines that waited aboard the Conquerer? What of his Eaters of Cities, some of whom were even now undergoing the process that would see them rise again as Astartes, when even the weakest among them could live longer than he would?</p><p>Did they not deserve to know? Should they not give him a sendoff every bit as mighty as the one he'd given to the slain at the summit of D'shea?</p><p>What would happen to the Legion once he was gone?</p><p>Angron blinked and the Emperor's grip slackened an infinitesimal amount on the sword in his hand. "At the end," the Primarch croaked,"when I'm rotted through by this thing..." He shook the mechanical dreadlocks behind him with vehemence. "What will happen to me?"</p><p>"You will be a wounded, maddened animal. What makes you, you, will be gone. You will attack any living thing you can see, hear, smell, or sense. If left alone, you would mutilate yourself until prey came into view. Angron of the Eaters of Worlds would be devoured entirely."</p><p>Angron considered. "Will this be gradual or sudden? Will I know it is happening to me?"</p><p>The Emperor nodded. "Now that I have told you, your mind will become more self-aware of its own destruction. Up until the final months, some part of you will know."</p><p>Angron dragged his hand across his face, distending his features as it passed until he reached the thin black stubble at his jawline.</p><p>"That Susan Brain Horus spoke of, the Astartes organ that lets 'em hibernate. I've got one of those, right? Just put me in that until you or that Land fellow work out a cure or a fix or..."</p><p>The Emperor's armor dissolved on a sourceless wind as He sat back down heavily, leaning on the massive sword.</p><p>"Arkhan Land consulted with me while you were asleep and he concurred with my analysis. We scoured the Mechanicus's available and private records alike and found nothing. Not for this kind of degeneration. Even if we removed your brain and placed it in a dreadnought, it would be too badly damaged."</p><p>Now Angron was pacing up and down the hall as the Custodes began their ridiculous dance. Every time Angron approached them, the spears went up. Every time he stalked away, the spears lowered, fractionally. The Emperor couldn't bring himself to care.</p><p>"Cloning? It worked with Lheorvine, back on Gamma Seven."</p><p>"Captain Ukris lost his hands, not his brain. And I would not dare to clone a Primarch's body while his soul was elsewhere. Not even Magnus would attempt such a thing, nor would I allow him to do it."</p><p>The Primarch let out a groan and clasped his hands behind his head, twining his fingers around the cables. </p><p>"You are the leader of the most powerful empire the galaxy has ever seen, and I am your son. Your SON! And there is NOTHING, nothing  at all you can do, beyond chopping my bloody head off?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>Angron's fingers clenched around the abomination buried in his skull and for a moment the Emperor thought he would rip his own spine out by hand. But by the time his hand went up, his mouth parted to make some sort of plea, the moment hand passed. Angron lowered his hands to his sides and glared across at his father.</p><p>"I will speak to my Legion. I will speak to my Eaters of Cities. Send me to the thickest fights, the most grueling battlefields, the worst this galaxy has to offer and we will win them. Not for you," he spat, "but for us. So the Legend of Angron will be scarred and knotted so deep in the flesh of our foes and friends alike that they will weep at my death. So my Legion will continue on, in my name."</p><p>He pointed again, and poked the Emperor's chest. "You, will not touch them. Gulliman, will not touch them. You will let them decide what to do once I am gone."</p><p>"If they attack the innocent, if they harm the Imperium, I shall destroy them," said the Emperor in a voice like a barren tundra.</p><p>"You mean if they choose to follow me into madness? Then fine. But they won't. They're good men."</p><p>"What of you?"</p><p>When the day comes, at the hour of my choosing, I will call for you. We will return to Nuceria, and I will face you in single combat. You will chop my head off and bury me there. Make it grand, make it plain, make it dignified, I don't care. Just a place my Legion can point to and say, 'there lies Angron the Conquerer. May his example inspire us all.' or whatever rot they come up with. I'm sure it'll be tragically heroic, either way."</p><p>"If you succeed in single combat?"</p><p>Angron's expression told Him how likely that was.</p><p>"Then every World Eater there can shoot me with the biggest guns they have until I'm a greasy stain. Satisfied?"</p><p>The Emperor stood in silence, eyes roving over his wounded creation.</p><p>"Even now you do your Legion and your world credit, my son."</p><p>"Hrm. They're the ones who shoved it in me. Shatter its core, wipe the knowledge of this machine from the universe, just don't let this happen again."</p><p>Angron turned towards the door and the waiting Custodes. "You've got eighteen other sons, <em>my Emperor</em>," he sneered. "Don't wear them out too fast."</p><p> </p>
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